Tea and Deathsticks
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: A tea debacle of prodigious proportions. During a necessary - and truant - foray into the lower levels of Coruscant, Obi-Wan encounters deathsticks, street gangs, and unexpected wisdom. Tea can be found in strange places, indeed. Humour, sorrow, angst, and good old Master/Padawan bonding. Published in short chapters. Cover art by Cowshell.
1. The Tea Debacle

**Hello, there. This story, **_**Tea and Deathsticks,**_** is in no way related to my popular SW story, **_**The Silent Song.**_** Regular readers of **_**The Silent Song **_**will know my predilection for mixing humour with all genres; this will be a slightly serious, at times humorous, and ultimately heart-warming story about master, padawan and their mutual love of tea. Updates will come quickly – a three or four chapter fic.**

**Enjoy!**

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_Tea and Deathsticks_

By Eirian Erisdar

The tinkle of breaking porcelain fills the small kitchen with its bright cadence.

A moment of silence.

Of the two padawans staring at the spectacle in mutual dread, Garen Muln is the first to speak. "We're going to become one with the Force," he states succinctly. "Master Jinn's going to flay us alive for this."

"No, no," Obi-Wan murmurs quietly, wide cerulean eyes still fixed on the sad spectacle. "He may flay _you_ alive, but he'll hang, draw, and quarter me."

Garen grimaces. "I don't know what I'd prefer."

The broken teacup stands forlorn witness to this rather macabre conversation.

Obi-Wan tugs distractedly on his padawan braid. _Blast it_. _Blast it to Sith-cursed Moraband._

The milkstone floor of the kitchen gleams a disgustingly cheery painted blue in the late-morning light, contrasting sharply with the curved fragments of white-azure porcelain strewn on its smooth surface. For once, no answer is presented when Obi-Wan reaches into the Force. No liberal application of it can seal these scattered pieces into a seamless whole.

"Obi?" Garen seems _thoroughly_ unfocused. It occurs Obi-Wan that his shields have slipped, and he throws them back up viciously, vaguely aware of Garen's flinch as his mental probe skids off an unprepared mindscape. Perhaps he should apologise – but no, that brings to mind another apology he will have to make, to a far more terrifying Jedi–

"Hey, maybe we're overthinking this," Garen says, sounding vaguely hopeful. "It's _one_ cup, after all. He has others, right?" His earlier worry is almost gone; Obi-Wan notices he now sports his trademark no-holds-barred-cocksure-Jedi-pilot grin, albeit with a dash more uncertainty than usual.

"Garen–"

"We'll clean up," Garen continues blithely, rifling through the cabinets. "You've got to keep a dustpan somewhere – Oh, Force!"

This last exclamation is in response to his knocking a small ceramic jar off the edge of a shelf. Both padawans lunge for the container physically and telekinetically, and so the small pot jumps on twirling eddies of air, slips through two pairs of scrabbling hands, and comes to a very miserable end through opposing Force pushes by _imploding_. Loudly.

The kitchen floor is graced with an unexpected rain of snow-white ceramic and tiny, curled leaves.

_Panic_ flares into the Force.

"I'm so sorry, Obi," Garen whispers, his voice hushed.

The panic dissolves and melts into a mere undercurrent of impending doom. Obi-Wan takes a deep, centering breath, wincing mentally as the textured aroma of rare tea coils at the back of his throat.

It is a testament to Garen's character that he attempts to remain optimistic, even at this point in the debacle. "Well, on the bright side of things – at least it's not Master Jinn's favourite tea."

A pregnant pause.

"Force-forsaken stars. It _is_, isn't it?"

"And his favourite cup." Obi-Wan's words echo Garen's morose tenor as he indicates the scattered pieces of azure-tinted pottery.

Worriedly, Garen flicks at the end of his damp braid. Obi-Wan winces. He is already _very much_ regretting inviting his age-mate back to the Jinn/Kenobi quarters to clean up after their – admittedly rule-flaunting – swim in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

After an indeterminable period, Garen voices the question weighing heavily on both their minds. "What are you going to do?"

Despite himself, Obi-Wan bites back a small chuckle; Garen has not lisped like so since their days in the crèche, back when Master Ali-Alann's word was law. The flash of amusement fades, though, when the blunt reality of the question dawns. Lacking a true answer, he falls back on tradition and code, the stalwart truths that frame the Order's history.

"The Force will provide an answer," Obi-Wan states firmly, with the serene, sure expression that has wormed Garen and he out of more than a few tight spots with the masters in charge of their teaching.

Garen is quite naturally dubious. "You sure?"

"Quite."

"Well…" Garen is due at Master Stass Allie's lecture on advanced inter-system diplomacy for senior padawans in all of ten minutes; the nature of most of Obi-Wan's missions renders him exempt, but Garen knows as well as Obi-Wan does that he risks kitchen duty should he tarry any longer. Obi-Wan is ever so slightly grateful as he watches his friend's loyalty war with caution – but caution is victorious, if only by a small margin.

The door hisses open. Garen's cloak-hem trails after him in a dark pennant of mortification as he darts out into the corridor, throwing a hasty "I really am sorry, Obi," over his shoulder as a last farewell.

Alone in the relatively peaceful quarters, Obi-Wan crouches and brushes a gentle finger through the field of uneven debris. There, flaring like a painted comet-tail from the pile of shattered pottery – a scattered trail of tiny, curled leaves, releasing the sharp scent of earthy spices and autumn honey into the air even as they darken in the puddle of filthy water the padawans had tracked into the kitchen with their boots.

_Noorian blossom Sapir. _Obi-Wan knows – from the few rare cups of the tea his master had allowed him to sample – that this particular blend of tea does not yield a particularly _refined_ flavour. It certainly does not have the seemingly-thousands of complex aromas or the eye-poppingly expensive price tag of the Corellian tea that master and padawan had sampled a few years prior, when they oversaw the planet's senatorial elections. No; Qui-Gon's favoured tea is a simple variant of common green, Sapir, blended with delicate petals of wild Noorian blossoms. The sweet nectar of a hundred different species of wildflower form a perfect counterpoint to the clear golden bitterness of the Sapir leaf – but its complexities end there.

_But perhaps…_

Noori is also the homeworld of Jedi Master Tahl Uvain, who once shone in battle as brilliantly as a morning star, but is now unreachable, save for in the unifying currents of the Force.

So this, then, is why Qui-Gon's smile always contains same bittersweet edge as this particular blend of tea when he brews up a fragrant cup of it, every year on the anniversary of _her_ death.

Obi-Wan has never commented on it – not in the three years the ritual has been in place. It is one of those unspeakable subjects that master and padawan never address, but weighs eternally upon them nevertheless, like frost surrounding the edges of the otherwise warm bridge of their bond, a frozen burden of sorrow, of guilt, of regret. The Force has thawed it somewhat, but it is still _there._

And with that thought, Obi-Wan makes his decision. He will _not_ cause his master further grief.

A larger piece of pottery catches his gaze. There, clustered on the small expanse, is a small pile of dry tea, held above the water. The ghost of a smile flickers across Obi-Wan's face; using a careful application of the Force, he lifts the few leaves into a clean wad of bandage taken from his utility belt.

With a new determination in his step, Obi-Wan rises, darts off to his room for a quick change of clothes, orders a cleaning droid to the mess in the kitchen floor, and then – when he is girded for war in pristine robes of cream and russet – he slips into the corridor, heading for the Temple's main concourse and the thriving city-planet of Coruscant beyond.

He has assigned himself a mission. A mission for _tea_.

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**So Obi-Wan throws himself into battle…haha! I shall update soon. Tell me what you think! Reviews are much appreciated – I especially want the opinions of my regular readers. I shall endeavour to reply to all of you! You all have absolutely no idea how strange it was for me to write an Obi-Wan who can speak… **


	2. Jedi Business

_Chapter 2 - Jedi Business_

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Coruscant is the masterpiece of the Galactic Republic.

The famed 'Center of the Galaxy' is a world of paradox. It was once green, and lush, and covered with countless oceans; but from the moment the first sentient being had stepped onto its surface, Coruscant began to _change_. Layer upon layer, generation upon generation it has grown, like a living, glittering creature that does not shed its carapace but grows a new shell _outward,_ throwing its past lives deeper and deeper into the soiled, black heart of the city-planet. Coruscant's inhabitants transform with it, building higher, further, crawling over the corpses of their not-quite dead ancestors to reach for the smoke-choked stars in an eternal race to survive, to _breathe._ And with each Coruscanti that digs its way out of the underlevels to breathe clean air and see the white-bleached skies for the first time, a dozen more wallow in the eternal twilight below, their necropolis that was their rocking-chair when they were younglings and will become their coffin when they finally cease to breathe, suffocated by the sheer weight of a million more sentient beings piled head upon head above them.

A _Coruscanti_ is humanoid, aquatic, reptilian, and a hundred thousand other species; they are young, old, rich, poor, influential, menial, living, dying. The senator reclining in a plush aircar does not spare a thought for the rubbish-eater tens of kilometeres below; Jedi and bounty-hunters live within half a klick of each other here.

In a manner of speaking, Coruscant is perfect model of the galaxy as a whole, turned inside out so the core systems are flaunted like jewellery on flawless skin while the filth and slime of the outer rim is buried deep within, decaying. It is a creature that should be long-dead, reduced to feeding on itself to stay alive.

A place of such contrasts should not exist; and yet it does, somehow. Coruscant is the masterpiece of the Galactic Republic because of the simple fact it _endures_.

Obi-Wan Kenobi senses all of this _thrum_ in the Force as he steps out of the Temple Plaza and into Coruscant proper. The Force in the Jedi Temple is always a muted, stately glow, a hearth-fire warmed by the signatures of ten thousand Jedi. Out in Coruscant, beyond the ascending ziggurat of the Temple, the Force is a maelstrom of intertwined destinies, the warp and weft of time twisting into a vibrant, shifting pattern.

It should be enough to send any Force-sensitive to their knees; as it is, Obi-Wan simply breathes in a lungful of the acrid air and allows the current to take him.

The crowds eddy and flow, and Obi-Wan allows them to pull him along. He is not the eye of the storm; rather, he is a drop of water in a vortex, perfectly still in relation to his neighbouring raindrops.

As the doors of the express train hisses closed behind him, Obi-Wan leans against the durasteel surface and grins wryly from under the shadow of his hood. At the age of almost eighteen standard, and holding the rank of senior padawan, he is technically permitted to register the use of a temple aircar; as it is, the…shall we say…_unofficial_ nature of this mission renders the privilege useless.

A small snort escapes him. It is fortunate that Qui-Gon is currently representing the Jedi in the annual Galactic History conference at the Galactic Museum, and will not be expected back at the Temple until well after evening meal.

"_The Council's becoming increasingly ingenious in their methods of keeping you in line, Master,"_ Obi-Wan had quipped that morning, as a very disgruntled Jedi master threw on cloak and boots. "You have the look of a murderous krayt dragon about you."

The aforementioned krayt dragon had thrown a penetrating stare at his younger companion and casually replied, "I do not think you will be so very amused over this, young one, when I return growling with hunger even more of a slavering monster than I currently am, and devour a witless padawan for daring to tease."

"I don't see why–"

"And before you ask why the Council did not send you," Qui-Gon had continued, "It is because you _enjoy_ these historical conferences far too much."

The Force had danced with mutual amusement.

A mechanised voice breaks Obi-Wan out of his thoughts. _"Next stop: Chandrillan Entertainment District. Here, tourists can peruse…" _Tuning out the overly cheerful voice of the announcement system, Obi-Wan becomes aware he is the target of a rather inquisitive stare.

A little Balosar boy of no more than five standard swings his feet in the air, perched on the seat beside the standing Jedi. Obi-Wan glances about for the child's guardian, but none appear.

"Hello, there," Obi-Wan states plainly.

The boy removes the thumb he has jammed in his mouth long enough to lisp brightly, "Are you a Jedi, mister?" before – Obi-Wan winces – sticking the grimy digit back between his lips. Luminous red-brown eyes blink trustingly up at the intriguing stranger from below a mop of messy hair and waving antennapalps.

Years of diplomatic training does not leave Obi-Wan so _wholly_ unprepared for an encounter such as this. He lowers the hood of his cloak, crouches down beside the little thing, and meets that wide gaze straight on as he replies, "Yes, I am."

If possible, the ochre eyes widen _even further_. The child makes a little gasping sound, as if sucking in as much air as possible, and Obi-Wan's memory flashes back to an early recollection of Reeft in the crèche, the first time they were presented with training 'sabers–

_Oh, Force. Don't–_

"AWEEEESOOOOME!" The boy's shriek drives splinters into Obi-Wan's eardrums, and when the spiking pain fades, he turns in place to find that the two of them have captured the attention of every occupant of their carriage.

In the sudden silence, Obi-Wan folds his hands into opposite sleeves, striving to maintain at least an outward appearance of Jedi serenity. The subtle movement allows his cloak to shift, revealing the gleaming length of the 'saber strapped to his belt. A murmur travels about the assembly as fifty pairs of eyes move from lightsaber to nerf tail to padawan braid to Jedi tunics and back to the lightsaber again, the final stamp of identity.

Conversation starts up again and gazes turn away. Jedi business is exactly that – _Jedi_ business.

Obi-Wan turns back to his private audience of one, opens his mouth…

…and the boy beats him to it. "Ohthatwasevenmoreawesomeyou'resotallandscaryandheydoyouusethat_Farce_ofyoursto–"

"The _Force,_" Obi-Wan corrects automatically. "We serve the Force, not a _farce._"

"Butbutbutdoyoublastbadguystobitsand…"

The sheer speed of speech alone is astonishing. Obi-Wan lifts a cultured eyebrow and waits patiently until the babble ends in an inevitable hiccup and much-needed gasp of air.

"Breathe," Obi-Wan suggests dryly, reaching out to steady the purple-faced, swaying child. "I would like you to answer two questions for me," he continues, speaking softly. "Firstly: What is your name?"

"Elan. Elan Sel'Sabagno," The young Balosar declares, surprisingly clearly for such a mouthful of a name.

"Very well, Elan," Obi-Wan says, putting on the smile he usually reserves for Temple crèchelings. "And the second: Where is your guardian?"

A vaguely troubled look passes over Elan's features. "Don't know." His antennapalps droop sadly. "My old'r brother Elad told me to stay here," he adds in a softer voice, as if copying the Jedi's quietness.

"And when was this?" Obi-Wan already suspects the answer – it rings too true in the Force – but he needs it confirmed.

Elan shrugs. "Dunno. A _loooot_ of stops ago. He said if I was hungry, I could get credits by selling these." A small hand digs into a pocket and comes up with a variety of multicoloured tubes.

Obi-Wan stares at the cheap, unrefined deathsticks spread in a toxic fan across the little palm, and finds himself momentarily lost for words.

_Force-forsaken...!_

The deathsticks shoot away from Elan's palm like miniature rockets as Obi-Wan summons them into his own grasp with a tendril of the Force. "These," he growls, his voice dropping in seriousness, "are deathsticks. You are never to come near these again, no matter what your brother says. Understand?"

Elan nods innocently…but the Unifying Force gives a humoured jolt right at that moment, and Obi-Wan is filled with an inexplicable sense of irony, as though the Force itself were laughing at some great inside joke.

A pause. Obi-Wan sighs. "Do you know how to return home by yourself?"

The small head shakes, once, twice.

_Sithspit._

The precepts of the Order are clear: compassion and responsibility are two of the most important lessons taught to Jedi Initiates. It is in moments like these that Obi-Wan laments the continuous trials of a Jedi padawan. They can be…tiring. And annoying. Especially when they choose to manifest as lost, five-year-old Balosar children.

The bright voice of the train's announcement system interrupts his deep philosophical comtemplation. _"Next stop: CoCo Town. Mercantile and commercial district."_

Trapped by duty, Obi-Wan holds out a hand to Elan. "Come with me," he says authoritatively. "I'll call the authorities and get you home."

Elan hops off the metal seat without preamble and thrusts his sticky hand into the Jedi's callused palm. Obi-Wan supresses a shudder, and focuses on stowing away the deathsticks in his belt instead.

The train doors slide open with a hollow _whoosh,_ like the wheezing breath of an emphysemic Hutt.

Elan trots obediently beside Obi-wan as they step out onto the scuff-marked duracrete platform. "Where are we going?" he lisps, half-jogging on short legs to keep up.

"Somewhere you can wait safely until the authorities come for you," Obi-Wan answers, dragging his new little satellite behind him. "You'll like it there. It's owned by a friend of mine – Dex."

"Dex?" the small voice is muffled by the number of people surrounding them.

"Dexter Jettser. It happens I was heading that way myself – I intended to speak to him about something. He has a…reputation, shall we say, of knowing the seedier sides of town. But he's a good person at heart."

The hand holding Obi-Wan's jerks excitedly. "I can handle seedy! My mama always said our family rede…redef…_redefines_ seedy, but that was before she sucked up all those pretty tubes and stuff and _died_." The last word is a cheerily stated fact, no more.

…And Obi-Wan decides it would do both of them a world of good if there were no more conversation for the rest of the short walk to Dex's Diner.

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**The observant ones among you will notice I referenced a rather popular comedic scene from one of the movies here. Next chapter will include more tea. Thank you all, and please review! I treasure on your opinions.**


	3. Hot Leaf Juice

_Chapter 3 – Hot Leaf Juice_

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_Ding-a-ling._ The chime over the diner door announces the arrival of a adventure.

"Well, lookie 'ere! It's the smooth-talkin', heart-breakin' cream of the Jedi 'imself! In the flesh!"

"Afternoon, Dex," Obi-Wan returns, unable to stop a smile from quirking at his mouth as the Besalisk lumbers toward him like an ancient repulsor forklift. "I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you there; I wouldn't know much about breaking hearts."

Dex's Jettster's gravelly laughter echoes unrestrainedly off the walls of the diner. The chuckling is hardly lovely – Qui-Gon had once described Dex's voice as having the exact timbre and pitch of an early generation Trandoshan-tech hyperdrive's perpetual death rattle – but it is good natured, if a bit uncultured.

Obi-Wan ventures to speak again, but changes his mind and holds the much-needed breath instead as Dex envelops him in one of his signature Besalisk hugs: Four arms, each as thick round as a starfighter blaster, all squeezing the air out of the victim at once.

Jedi training ensures that Obi-Wan's ribs do not crack under the prodigious pressure.

In spite of his gargantuan girth, Dex jumps nimbly on Obi-Wan's pause for breath. "Not a heartbreaker, eh?" he growls humouredly. "Tell that to the nerf-herder ye call master. Not long ago ye were this adorable thing that came up to 'is hip, and now ya the stinkin' image of a Jedi padawan. Must bring tears of pride to the old man's eyes, hehheh."

Attempting to swallow the rather disturbing image of Qui-Gon sobbing superfluously over his achievements, Obi-Wan's begins to compose a reply – and a tug at his sleeve provides a timely distraction.

"What's that?" Elan asks bluntly, pointing at Dex as he edges out from behind Obi-Wan's cloak.

"This is Dex, the friend I spoke to you about. He's a Besalisk."

"Oh." A huff. Then: "Why does he have four arms?"

"Why do you have antennapalps?" Obi-Wan quickly counters.

"Why _don't_ you have antennapalps?"

"Because my species–" Obi-Wan snaps his mouth shut when he notices the Besalisk in question watching the exchange with great interest.

Dex grins fearsomely, and makes a valiant attempt to hunker down to Elan's level. The Jedi winces; it only accentuates the rolls of fat clinging to his wide form. "What do we 'ave 'ere?" he chortles.

"This is Elan, Dex," Obi-Wan pronounces, with the air of a scientist knowing his next move will produce a deady chain reaction. "Elan," – he nudges the Balosar boy forward – "Greet Dex."

The next moment, Obi-Wan hides a gape as Elan shuffles up, spits in his hand and holds it out towards the much, _much_ larger sentient. "Hi," he states plainly. "You stink."

Chuckling madly, Dex wallops a gob of pungent Besalisk saliva into one of his four giant palms and wraps Elan's entire small forearm in the resultant sticky handshake. That done, the Besalisk wipes his hand on his filthy apron and snorts, "Now _'ere_ is a guy who knows his 'andshakes! Didja do the same when ya met 'im?" The last part is directed at a now-grinning Elan.

"Nah," Elan declares. "He looked too _clean_."

Obi-Wan's eyebrow twitches.

Dex throws back his head and roars his mirth to the ceiling, eliciting a plethora of good-natured jeers from half-deafened customers. "Aaah, that's a good one," he mumbles as his laughter subsides. "Why're ye here, though, Obi-Wan? I thought pickin' up strays was Qui-Gon's job."

The Jedi in question smiles wryly. "Actually, Dex, I came here to ask a favour. _Two_ favours, in fact."

"Hmmph. I see. Elan, kid, hop up to the bar over there and Didi'll get you some Jawa juice." Once the child is well-distracted by the drink, Dex motions Obi-Wan over to an empty booth. "Fire away," he grunts. "You came alone, so this'll be good. Cuppa tea?"

Obi-Wan leans back against the cushioned backboard and raises a cultured eyebrow. "Dex, you _know_ your tea tastes like hot leaf juice."

"Ent that what tea_ is?"_

"Warmed Luna weed extract is hot leaf juice. Tea, on the other hand, does not produce delusional hallucinations."

A snort. "Right ye are. I know that by experience, heh… Well, what can I 'elp ye with?"

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh. "Firstly – I came across Elan on the way here. According to his tale, he was abandoned by his family. Could he wait here while you call the proper authorities? I would stay to speak with them, but I have other business to attend to."

"No problem, buddy," Dex answers gravelly, gaze glinting. "Say…is this 'other business' of yours _legal?"_

"That would depend on the availability of your contacts," replies Obi-Wan, deadpan.

"Ah." Dex chortles again, sending his many chins jiggling. "My contacts are always available, my friend! You know me!"

"Well, then." Obi-Wan reaches into a belt-pouch and removes a folded square of fabric, placing it carefully on the scrubbed plastiform tabletop before continuing. "I need to know where I could procure a large sample of Noorian blossom Sapir quickly, and for a reasonable price."

Dex reaches over and unfolds the cloth with fingers surprisingly nimble for their size. "Noorian blossom Sapir," he repeats, an inkling of some mischief or the other twinkling in his yellow eyes as he gazes at the small pile of tea leaves.

"Yes."

If the Besalisk had eyebrows – or hair, for that matter – Obi-Wan is sure they would have disappeared into his hairline by now. "…And just how quick d'you hafta be?" Dex inquires slyly.

But Obi-Wan has been to far too many diplomatic events to be harried; his expression does not change in the slightest as he answers. "Before nightfall would be best."

"Before nightfall…" Dex's wide lips twitch, and the Jedi opposite him barely has time to brace himself before Dex's uproarious laughter shakes the rafters again. "Before nightfall!" he wheezes through his glee. "If yer in trouble with Qui-Gon, old boy, ye can't get out of it. Even if ye try, watcha goin' ta do in _four hours_ that can fix it?"

Obi-Wan refolds the cloth and tucks the packet back in his belt. "I'm not in trouble with Master Qui-Gon," he counters smoothly. _And I'm not. Not _yet,_ anyway._

"Ah, so this is a _sentimental_ thing," Dex says, nodding sagely. "Or is it both? Can't ever tell, with you Jedi types."

The long braid over Obi-Wan's ear moves as shifts, the merest of frowns creasing his forehead. "I don't have much time, Dex."

The Besalisk waves a hand. "Of course ye don't. Well, look here." he leans forward conspiratorially. "The leaf's rare enough already, but I overheard a coupla spice traders in here 'bout a week ago. There's been a drought on Noori goin' on, these past few months. I'd wager you wouldn't find Noorian blossom Sapir in any of the usual places."

"…And the high-end teahouses will charge far more than is fair, due to the limited supply," Obi-Wan sighs, leaning back and running a hand over sky-blue eyes. _I'm sorry, Master…_

Dex breaks him out of his reverie with a grunt of dismissal. "Hey, hey, d'you look at me and think 'high-end teahouse'?" He pauses to chuckle at his own joke, slapping his crease-aproned belly. "What you want is a _supplier,_ Obi-Wan. I _specialise_ in suppliers."

"Of arms and questionable goods?" Obi-Wan murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Of everything!" Dex booms jovially. "Whatcha need is this contact righ' here. Just lemme find a scrappa flimsy."

A few minutes later, Obi-Wan pockets the name and a set of coordinates in his belt, next to the sample of tea. "I knew you'd be able to help, Dex," he says, gratitude quite overwhelming the need to maintain an appearance of Jedi serenity.

"That's what I'm here for!" the erstwhile arms supplier chuckles. "You'd best be on your way, eh? I'll comm the authorities for the boy, now."

"You have my thanks." Obi-Wan stands smoothly and offers his friend a short bow. "Oh, and his full name is Elan Sel'Sabagno. You have my comm frequency, should they need to contact me."

"Gotcha." It takes two tries for Dex to heave his bulk out of the booth; he is only successful because of a convenient Force-nudge from his companion. "Many thanks," he grunts. "Watch yeself in the lower levels, won'tcha? You'll be goin' down deep to get that tea. There's a new gang about that the police are tryin' to dissolve…called _Red_-something. And I don't wanna hear you've been eaten by a Stratt pack, eh?"

"If I were eaten by a Stratt pack, Dex," Obi-Wan replies blithely, "There wouldn't be enough of me left for you to hear about it. I have a bond with the Stratts, anyhow. I saved one when I was younger."

"Well, if you don't take after Qui-Gon in springin' suprises." Dex claps a hand – fortunately, not the one he had spit on earlier – on the young Jedi's shoulder. "Just so ye know – if your old man comes looking for you, I'll be tellin' him where ye went."

"Oh, the betrayal," Obi-Wan drawls. "And he's hardly old."

"That's not the point, an ye know it."

"Perhaps."

A young voice breaks in. "Are you leaving now, Mister Obi-Wan?" Elan mouths as he somehow materialises by their knees.

"Yes," Obi-Wan answers, not bothering to sugarcoat his words. "Remember what I told you: stay away from deathsticks and other such products." Belatedly he wonders if he should have infused the advice with some subtle Force-suggestion, but it strays a little too far from the Order's precepts for his liking.

"Sure," Elan lisps, far too quickly. The young Jedi narrows his ice-blue eyes at him.

A pause. "Farewell, then." Obi-Wan makes a grinning Dex and an astonished Elan a bow, turns on his heel, and disappears into the Coruscant afternoon, his russet cloak flicking at his heels. The chime over the door tinkles merrily as he passes over the threshold.

"Be sure ta have finished before evenin', there's a scheduled rainfall!" Dex hollers after the rapidly fading figure.

The last image of Obi-Wan Kenobi that Elan Sel'Sabagno receives for the next seventeen years is sunlight glittering off the textured beads of a padawan braid.

"Mister Dex," Elan mutters, into the sudden quiet of the diner.

"Yeah?"

"Should I do what he said about those deathstick thingies?"

A rumbling chuckle. "Well, yes. Ye wouldn't like ta hafta rethink your life fifteen years from now, would ya?"

"Oh." Elan tilts his head, antennapalps flopping to one side. "What's so bad about that?"

Unbeknownst to both Besalisk and Balosar, the Unifying Force gives one last amused lurch, before settling once more.

* * *

**Well…those of you who didn't know who Elan was last time know now! For those interested, the 'saving a stratt pup' thing Obi-Wan mentioned will be addressed in an upcoming oneshot, **_**Republic Day.**_** As you can probably tell, this is going to be rather longer than three or four chapters. Hopefully it won't go over ten. Tea and underlevels in the next chapter. Tell me what you think!**


	4. Another World

_Chapter 4 – Another World_

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As Obi-Wan leans over the railing to peer down the massive, kilometre-wide vertical access tunnel, the wind catches the hood of his cloak and throws it back, leaving him with no defense against the roaring of a billion repulsors. Ships descend into the cavernous pit like flotsam sucked into a starving maelstrom, falling lower, deeper, and yet further downwards, dwindling and sinking until–

_Until what?_ Obi-Wan wonders. Where does this shaft end? Most craft, he knows, will turn off into various levels, depositing goods and passengers before returning – perhaps with a lucky under-dweller or two – to the surface. But should a transport's engines fail – what then? Would it continue falling for an eternity, swallowed whole by the city-planet's maw, until it descended into a version of hell?

A truly terrifying thought strikes. If the tunnel _does_ end on the actual planet surface, then this is truly a portal to hell; countless millennia of radiation and chemical waste would have bred unimaginable monstrosities down below.

With this merry musing in mind, Obi-Wan withdraws a square of flimsy from his utility belt. The address inked on the wrinkled surface is scrawled in Dex's barely legible Aurebesh lettering.

_9:54:226:6290_

_Zone 14, Third Quadrant_

_Level 679_

The first four numbers stand for building, sub-block, block, and megablock, each one a subdivision of the other. A hundred sub-blocks in one block, a thousand blocks in a megablock, and ten thousand megablocks in a single zone. Obi-Wan sighs minutely. It is no surprise that the Republic has never even attempted to hold a census of Coruscant's population.

But he has other problems he must solve.

The first two lines of the address are unsurprising; alone, they could very easily have been the address of a wealthy senator's estate on the surface levels. But the third and last line very effectively puts this into perspective. On perusing the scrap of flimsy a few minutes after leaving Dex's diner, Obi-Wan had paused mid-step, frozen in disbelief, and almost turned back to ask whether the Besalisk had gone mad.

_Level 679._

Coruscant has a total of over five thousand levels – the larger the number, the higher above the planet's actual surface. The Underlevels begin a scant fifty levels below the base of the surface skyscrapers; Obi-Wan had shuddered to contemplate what horrors are held in level so deep as to be counted in _hundreds_.

Once his morbid imaginings had exhausted themselves into a simple acceptance in the Force, Obi-Wan had found himself confronted with the simple obstacle of _finding a way down_. None of the government-run train systems run anywhere near deep enough, and any other transport would involve hitch-hiking of a sort, which –judging by the moral standards of the average Twilighter – would inevitably lead to a corpse in a ditch somewhere. Whether the corpse would be _his_, however, Obi-Wan does not care to find out.

And above all, he simply has no _time._

In the end, there is only one thing for it.

Now, as he stares down Coruscant's open gullet, Obi-Wan undoes his belt and re-clasps it over his cloak, cinching it tight so the heavy cloth lies close to his back. His lightsaber he grasps in one sweaty hand, while the other rests on the pitted metal of the railing, tethering him to the steady duracrete beneath his boots.

There is a moment when he hesitates; but Qui-Gon's future disappointment reverberates in the Unifying Force, and Obi-Wan knows what he must do.

He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. _In. Out._

A Jedi knows no emotion; a Jedi knows no fear.

And should he fail – There is no death. There is the _Force_.

Eyes still shut, Obi-Wan raises his face to the warm sunlight one more time – and vaults over the railing.

He falls.

* * *

The Force roars into a solitary crescendo of exhilaration. He forces breath into his lungs, barking a laugh that might have been a scream as the acid exhaust of the city-planet burns his throat. His braid is a stinging whip by his cheeks; his heart is a staccato blur that dances in time with the screaming song of the wind, ripping tears from his eyes that fall _upward,_ towards the sunlight that bleeds into artificial white and then muted shadow. Time is rift in twain; the streaks of light that dart past him are newborn stars that cascade into supernovas the moment he sees them, and Obi-Wan wonders for the briefest of moments whether _he_ is one of them, a shooting star careening towards the hidden depths, only to shatter into a million glittering pieces–

_No._

He cannot see, and his voice is lost in the airstream; but he does not need either. He only needs to _listen._ The Force sings to him, a melody soothing and gentle past the shrieking of the wind, and Obi-Wan lets the music cradle him in its invisible currents, turning his fall into a soaring arc–

His boots thud against ancient duracrete, and Obi-Wan rolls to dissipate the impact. He remains crouched there for a moment, letting the cacophony of the Force subside into a mere ripple in his mind. The lingering headache is retribution enough to convince him that he will _never do that again._

And Obi-Wan rises to his feet in an entirely different world.

The green glow of the access tunnel behind him is nothing compared to the gloom ahead, dotted here an there with decrepit neon lights that flicker like fireflies stuck on a great spider-web of winding streets. The wall of the entryway is painted with a large _679_, but the paint is so encrusted with grime that only a glimmer in the Force renders it legible.

Obi-Wan reorganises his attire into its normal arrangement, clips his 'saber to his belt, and raises his hood. A standard-issue glowstick cracks to life between his fingers, painting him a slimy green. Juvenile duracrete slugs and other vile things skitter away from this new light, or perhaps from the soft _click-click_ of boots on uneven ground.

One street after another passes by; the few creatures he encounters shrink back into the pooling shadows, either intimidated by the glint of the lightsaber at his hip, or the mystery woven into the drape of his cowl. Either way, they disappear all too quickly for him to discern whether they are sentient.

The Force prickles on his neck, and unbidden, his footsteps quicken.

Another few turns, and at the end of a tiny cul-de-sac lies a scratched wooden door, incongruously recessed in the duracrete around it. Obi-Wan pauses to stare – the doorway is illuminated by a prehistoric _filament bulb_ that dangles sorrowfully over the little threshold. The dirty yellow luminance does little good to dispel the darkness that perpetually clings to the level.

Obi-Wan raises a hand and knocks twice on the wormy wood. The sound seems to vibrate down to the ground and ripple outwards, shivering through the too-still air, rustling through the crooked pavements.

The door creaks open to reveal…nothing.

Frowning, the Jedi glances down.

Two enormous yellow eyes stare accusingly up at him from above wrinkly furred cheeks. A square chin rises in scorn, baring hook-like bony protrusions half hidden by a thick beard. A pair of fluffy, cat-like ears stick out comically from the top of this unexpected apparition's head, twitching with agitation.

Schooling his expression, Obi-Wan makes the three-foot tall Zygerrian a deep bow. "Greetings. I am here to–"

"Git out o' my doorway." The order is delivered in a throaty growl reminiscent of a predatory cat's snarl.

"I do not wish to intrude–"

"Ah said git out!" A small-barreled blaster appears out of nowhere; Jedi reflexes step in. Even as the aged Zygerrian's clawed finger tightens on the trigger, Obi-Wan's hand has already crossed the short distance to the 'saber at his belt, thumb feeling for the recessed activation button.

The blue of the blaster bolt is met with a searing blade of azure fire, a deeper, richer hue. The hum of Obi-wan's lightsaber fills the air with the sound of a firebeetle hive awoken from slumber; deflected, the shot careens into a neighboring shack of a building, _shattering_ the rusted duracrete door. A clatter of footsteps sounds from within the dim hallway, and then a fat, matronly Twi'Lek woman suddenly stands on the doorstep. Framed by the ruins of her front door, she screams abuse at her three-foot neighbor in garbled Basic and a plethora of other languages – Obi-Wan identifies at least four – at which the Zygerrian roars a few choice insults right back at her.

When the quarrel shows no sign of ceasing, Obi-Wan nimbly inserts himself between the two opposing parties, the thrumming plasma of his lightsaber forming a very effective shield against any threat.

"Kindly shut up," he growls, turning an ice-blue gaze onto both silenced persons. Obi-wan can already see that negotiator's patience will be wasted on them. Deep, calming breath. This is nothing more than a diplomatic squabble, and such squabbles are sometimes best dealt with quickly.

"Ma'am," he murmurs in fluent Twi'Lek, "Please accept my apologies for damaging your front door. Allow me to repair it for you."

The Twi'Lek woman stares, astonished, as Obi-Wan gathers the scraps of metal with a wave of a hand, flicks his 'saber onto its lowest setting, and uses the heat of the plasma blade to fuse the pieces into a shoddy whole. A neat circular hole remains in the centre, where the blaster bolt had shorn through. When the woman looks as if she is about to point it out, Obi-Wan flashes her a dangerous smile and says pleasantly, "Well, you have a very convenient peep-hole now."

Her mouth shuts with an audible _click,_ and she turns to flee back into her home. Obi-Wan slots the door back into its frame with a motion, returns his 'saber to his hip, and turns to the only other person in the cul-de-sac.

"Sir–"

"C'mon in, lad," the gravelly voice announces unexpectedly.

Pausing to reflect that he has yet to finish a sentence in this old Zygerrian's presence, Obi-Wan opens his mouth to give a surprised answer–

–Just in time to catch the tip of a furry ear disappearing behind the wooden door, which remains welcomingly half-open.

Obi-Wan spares a soft laugh at the utter irony as he slips through into the dim abode, and the laugh turns into a sharp intake of breath when scent of a thousand different types of tea reaches him.

In a gloom, a grumpy voice sounds by his hip. "Me name's Aldan. Wot're ye 'ere for?"

"Tea," Obi-Wan murmurs under his breath, still breathing in the wonderful scent.

"Righ'." The vague outline of Aldan hacks a wheezing cough. "'aven't 'ad a customer in months. Now, are ye goin' ter 'elp me wiv the candles or are ye goin' ter stand there like a dolt?"

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**To anyone interested, Aldan means 'old and wise'. Review please! Coming up: Obi-Wan learns, Aldan is gloriously grumpy, and the mission runs into a problem…**

**Answers to Reviews:**

**ErinKenobi2893:**** He's adorable, all right. And completely, utterly truant. Just look at what trouble he gets into in this chapter! Thanks for reviewing. **

**Fanfic Lurker:**** Thank you! So very sorry I didn't reply to you last time. Oh yes, it's strange writing 'speaking-Obi'. I'm using this opportunity to unleash the sassmaster, though.**


	5. Tradition and Poodoo

_Chapter 5 - Tradition and Poodoo_

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The candles, as it turned out, would have required an infuriatingly long time to be lit, should it have been done in the _traditional_ – or rather, prehistoric – manner that the owner of this little teashop seems to prefer. Obi-Wan's lips had twitched sarcastically when Aldan produced a pair of actual _strike-stones_ from a fold in his clothing. The old Zygerrian had then clacked the stones together over a pile of dry kindling – the hearth so cold and dead that the feeble sparks guttered out instantly, swallowed by frozen mulch. The Jedi, on his part, had watched with barely-veiled incredulity.

All the while, Aldan keeps up a steady stream of mutterings under his breath.

The Force stretches thin; even Jedi patience has its limits. When Aldan's mutterings finally culminate in a stream of curses and two strike-stones expertly drop-kicked into a darker corner, Obi-wan can bear it no more.

"Allow me," he says shortly, reaching over the dim shape of the short Zygerrian and clicking his fingers over the cold ashes. The Force flares into a spike of heat and energy. _Flamusfracta _is an advanced skill; while a master at the art could summon a flame into the palm of their hand, Obi-Wan's limited knowledge of Force-combustion is at least sufficient to cause a fat spark to jump from the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

The fire ignites with a small _foomp_, half-blinding them with the sudden luminance.

"Whoa," Aldan's growl is strangely reminiscent of a mountain cat. "Chock-full o' talents, ain'tcha?"

In lieu of answering, the Jedi plucks a small branch of grimy fuel from the dirty orange flames and quickly ignites the many candles dotted around the small room, enlarging the uneven pool of flickering light. Each new pinprick of light reveals more of the chamber. Two entire walls abruptly loom out of the receding darkness, lined floor-to ceiling with little wooden drawers; the worm-eaten remains of what might once have been a counter curves around that part of the room in a quarter-circle. Opposite, one whole wall has nothing more than the slowly-wakening hearth and a heavy, faded tapestry hanging over the flames. When Obi-Wan turns back to look at the thin passageway by which he entered, the fire paints the doorframe with vines of sable to complement the engraved scarlet ones already present. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust, and the ceiling sags uncomfortably low.

When the last candle is lit, he flicks the impromptu candle-lighter back into the hearth and turns to face his companion once more.

As Obi-Wan had glimpsed by the dim light of the cul-de-sac outside, the owner of the dilapidated teashop appears to be a particularly short, elderly member of the Zygerrian species. Luminous yellow eyes crinkle in the firelight, above an aquiline nose and lips pulled down in a permanent scowl. The entirety of Aldan's face and his flat, tasselled feline ears is covered with fur the shade of a brown so light that it seems to fade into white at the edges of his beard, contrasting with the burred protrusions from the stubborn chin. _But that might be the result of age_, Obi-Wan reasons. Thick robes adorn the Zygerrian's short stature; some layers faded into colourless rags, but many still intact enough for a shadow of their once-intricate patterning to glimmer in the glow of the fire, for dusky oranges and reds to paint a memory of what might once have been expensive ceremonial clothing.

_Hmm._ It would seem Aldan is an enigma.

"Thankee," the gravelly voice mutters. "Now, were there anythin' yer wanted in particular, Master Jedi? And, since Ah'm askin', d'you not 'ave a name?"

It would seem Aldan is _grumpy_, too. Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow, and answers smoothly. "Please forgive my oversight. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Aldan snorts. "Fancy name."

Obi-Wan makes a swift change in tactics. "As is yours."

"It's _rare,_ that's wot."

"So is mine."

Aldan makes as if to retort once more, but halts, that same strange air of respect glinting in his round eyes as it did a few minutes previous.

Obi-Wan takes it as a small victory. "I'm looking for high-quality Noorian Blossom Sapir," he voices as he hands over the twist of bandage containing the remnants of Qui-Gon's favourite blend.

Crooked fingers, each tipped with a sharp claw-like nail, reach for the offering; the cloth is unfolded, sniffed at; a tassel quivers as the ear it is connected to twitches.

The aged Zygerrian straightens abruptly, blinking luminous eyes. "Yes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ah said yes, ye cloth-eared git! I've wha' ye want."

Obi-Wan waits patiently for Aldan to state a price. When it is clear nothing else is forthcoming, he prompts, "May I inquire as to payment? I'm willing to pay any amount of credits within reason."

Of all the replies he had been expecting, the young Jedi had most certainly not expected the short tea-master to burst into cynical laughter. As the cat-like yowls of mirth assail his ears, Obi-Wan briefly entertains the notion that this eccentric Zygerrian might not be wholly sane.

"Sir…?" he ventures.

Muffling one last guffaw, Aldan returns Obi-Wan's questioning gaze with a somewhat resigned stare. "Lad," he sighs. "Ye might as well gi' me a pile a' scrap metal, fer all credits're worth down 'ere."

Obi-Wan sighs. "Are credits truly unacceptable?"

The short Zygerrian snorts impatiently. "Lemme put it this way: Gimme somethin' of worth, or git outta mah shop!"

_Well. That might…complicate…things._ It was just typical, really. Here they are, on the capital-planet of the Galactic Republic – and Republic credits are useless. It seems almost no different to the backwater planets of the rims; Obi-Wan supposes that he would have received the same answer should this have been Nar Shadda or Tatooine. The weighty pouch of credits at his belt – all his mission savings from his years as a padawan – seems suddenly heavier. He has nothing else of value on his person; his tunics, tabards, and cloak are of standard, rough weave, and his 'saber is not of monetary value – it is precious, sacred to the Order, to the Force.

A rough voice interrupts his musings. "Why d'yer wan' this tea, anyway? Yer a surface dweller. Ah read people well – and ah can see it all over ya! What coulda made ye _want_ ter come down 'ere to this 'ell-'ole?" Aldan's voice has a strangely curious lilt to it.

Obi-Wan's lips pull into a reluctant grin as one of Qui-Gon's trademark thunderous expressions flicker in his memory. "This tea is not mine," he says, lightly. "It is a blend favoured by my master." Seeing Aldan's raised eyebrow, Obi-Wan quickly elucidates, "No, no, not that sort of master. He doesn't _own_ me. He's my…teacher."

"Heh!" A darkly humoured breath of air ruffles the fur of Aldan's beard. "So ye Jedi types ent that diff'rent from the rest of us, after all. Sendin' children ta do their dirty work for 'em."

The young Jedi bristles in defense of his master. "I assure you, Master Qui-Gon would never dishonour the precepts of the Order as you say," he retorts with a tone of steel. The Force spikes crimson, then recedes as he releases his indignation. _Breathe._ _Control._ He inclines his head. "And I am hardly a child; I came by my own volition."

At this, Aldan's amber gaze turns entirely too perceptive. "Hmm…runnin' truant, are we, laddie? Want ter avoid yer teacher's anger?"

"No." The word comes out with a tad more force than Obi-Wan had intended. "No. The fault is all mine…it was my oversight that led to the loss of his favourite tea. I only wish to make amends." He clutches at the tilting edge of the Force, seeking escape from the strange new direction of this conversation. It has almost touched on subjects that are…_personal._

One clawed hand reaches up to scratch at the furry beard. "Ahhh," Aldan mutters, nodding to himself. "It's not that yer scared of bein' punished, oh no. Ye just don' want 'im ter be sad, innit?

And this single statement tips Obi-Wan over the edge, into truth, into understanding, into acceptance. Yes, he had wanted to avoid a stern lecture and reprimand; but this pales in importance when compared to the sorrow and disappointment Qui-Gon's expression would hold if Obi-Wan does not replace the tea.

In the end, it is the only thing that matters.

_A Jedi knows not pride, but humility._

Obi-Wan bows his head and lowers himself onto one knee in the traditional posture of supplication.

"Please," he states simply. "I have gone to great lengths to come here. I will not leave empty-handed."

The Zygerrian teamaster does not reply for a moment. Perhaps he needed a moment to recover from his astonishment. Almost too softly for the kneeling Jedi's Force-enhanced hearing to hear, he murmurs, _"He reminds me of the kid…"_

Obi-Wan shifts slightly. _Kid? What child? And of whom?_

"…How did ye say ye got ter this lev'l again?" Aldan asks slowly.

While he still stares at the grimy floor, Obi-Wan's mouth twitches in a smirk. "I jumped."

"Hutt-spawned stars! Ye flew?"

"Close, but not quite. Fell."

Aldan's throaty voice explodes into laughter; real this time. Perhaps still a little bitter, but far lighter than the cynical hilarity of minutes previous. He almost seems _younger_. "Righ' gundark's cub, you are," he chuckles.

Obi-Wan's smirk grows into a full grin. "Yes."

Another yowling laugh. "All righ'. Git up. I'll git ye yer tea."

The Jedi straightens, words of gratitude on his lips–

"But ye need ter do somethin' fer me first," Aldan announces amusedly. "Ye see the state of this 'ere room?"

"…Yes?"

"It 'asn't bin cleaned since Ah started livn' alone," the short teamaster mutters thoughtfully. "Let's make a deal, eh? Ye get this room lookin' spotless, like, an' a nice aged bit of Noorian bloss'm Sapir's all yers to keep."

Obi-Wan blinks. It isn't the most _traditional_ of deals, to be sure, but if it will procure the tea, he will gladly submit to it. "Done," he answers, before any premonition in the Force can change his mind.

"Righ'. I should've some old cleanin' supplies out back…" Motioning for him to follow, the old Zygerrian moves towards the rear doorway.

Obi-Wan follows, a wry smile on his lips. Garen always said their daredevil exploits would land them elbow-deep in vile poodoo. In this case, it seems Obi-Wan literally will.

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**This story is getting far longer than I originally planned it to be. Well, my usual readers will know I can't help elaborating – but there will be excitement next chapter, for sure. Thanks for reading, and reviews are appreciated.**


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